


And Starting Conversations

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 09:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4661562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos takes Aramis home to meet his mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Starting Conversations

**Author's Note:**

> But imagine.......... all the AUs in which Porthos has a loving mother who's still alive? IMAGINE.

“Oh God,” Aramis says for possibly the third time in so many minutes, fumbling with the collar of the shirt he’s wearing. He unbuttons the top two buttons so that he can breathe, ripping off the attempt at a bowtie. “Oh God,” he says for a fourth time. “I can’t wear that. I’ll just look ridiculous.” 

Porthos, serene and gentle and wonderful – is now devilish and horrible because he’s laughing at him! He’s looking over at him, clearly amused with Aramis’ many fumblings, adjusting his own bowtie before he moves over towards him. 

“Then don’t wear one,” he says.

“But I’ll look too informal! I have to look good,” Aramis whines out, and does up his top two buttons again. He studies himself in the mirror. He looks ridiculous, overly severe. He unbuttons the buttons again and looks like he’s rolled out of bed after wonderful, wonderful sex. Which, frankly, he _has_ but that hardly seems appropriate considering the venue. 

“It’s not dinner with the president,” Porthos chastises him. “It’s just dinner with my mother. It’s okay to be a little informal.” 

“Dinner with your mother is _far_ more important than dinner with any president!” Aramis protests. His hands flap around for a moment, searching for purpose, and settles for pressing them to Porthos’ shoulders, now that he’s swayed in close enough to do so. Porthos’ hands, so big and so gentle, settle at his hips. 

Aramis doesn’t know why he’s so nervous. It’s hardly the first time he’s ever met someone’s parents, after all. It will hardly be the last time, either, he assumes. It’s different with this, though. This – this is something very different. _Porthos_ is something very different. 

He knows the story of Porthos and his mother – how they were separated, how they were reunited, how desperately and completely Porthos loves her. Aramis has never been particularly close with his own parents, not really, and he very much wants to impress this woman who’s so important to Porthos, who can still make his face go slack and boyish just talking about her. 

“I’m going to make an ass out of myself,” Aramis says. 

“Nah,” Porthos dismisses, lifting his hands to help adjust his shirt collar, brushes his fingers through his hair. He’s smiling at him, tilting his head, and pressing a small kiss to the tip of his nose. “You’ll charm her just like you do everyone. Just like you did me.” 

“You hated me at first,” Aramis whines. 

“And now look where we are,” Porthos offers with a big grin. 

Aramis sighs. “I’d rather not have your mother hate me. I can’t use the same methods with her as I did with you to win your favor.”

Porthos waggles his eyebrows twice and then steps away. 

“I just want her to like me,” Aramis admits in a pathetic, little voice – finally just saying what’s been bothering him for the better part of a week since he knew this dinner was going to happen. Damn it, he _wants_ her to like him.

Porthos’ smile gentles and he tilts his head. “Come on, you worrying fool, we don’t want to be late.”

Aramis fumbles around – because indeed, he really does not want to be late but he also wants to be presentable – but they do set out for Porthos’ mother’s house with relative time to spare.

 

-

 

Marie Cessette, when she opens the door to her little apartment, is just as beautiful as Aramis imagined the mother to Porthos du Vallon could be. He can see, instantly, everything he loves about Porthos’ face reflected back in his mother’s face – more feminine, but the same curve of her lips, the same slope of her nose, the kindness in her eyes, the small roundness to her ear. She is lovely, kind, but with a harshness to her jaw that betrays a long and difficult life. Her face lights up, though, when she locks eyes on Porthos, when he ducks down towards her and hugs her, becomes small in her arms. 

Seeing Porthos’ mother for the first time, Aramis doesn’t know how to describe the deep, painful ache that echoes through him – seeing the way she reaches out to hug Porthos, the way he seems to melt into her and hold her as if he’s never gotten enough of doing so. He’s so much taller than her. She’s slim and slight in his hold, but he still seems to sink down, become smaller than her, and she holds him like it’s easy. 

“You’re just in time,” she greets her son. 

“You know I’d never keep you waiting,” Porthos says, voice light and gentle in turn. 

Something pangs hard against Aramis’ heart – a deep, pained longing that he can’t quite place. It feels strange, to stand just beyond the circle of light bleeding out from the doorway, Porthos enveloped in his mother’s arms, like he’s always belonged there, yet still strangely foreign. They have spent many years apart – and they are still learning how to navigate a space together rather than separate. His hands touch at her back, though, hold her for longer than strictly necessary – as if afraid to let her go. 

“And this must be Aramis,” she says once she draws back and Aramis feels himself stand up all the straighter, shoulders tensed. His heart hammers hard and he can’t breathe for a moment and he should _not_ be this nervous, he should not be this ridiculous. He has faced parents before, easily. He has been charming and sophisticated and likeable but standing here, away from this woman and her son, he is terrified, down to his core, that she will not approve of him. 

“Don’t mind him,” Porthos cuts in when Aramis can’t speak straight away. “He likes to think himself this charming and mysterious man but he’s actually remarkably awkward.” 

Aramis makes a mournful sound of protest, snapping his eyes to Porthos to give him a wounded look. “I am _never_ awkward.” 

“Remember our second date when you tried to—”

“I’m sure,” Aramis cuts in, voice going a little higher than he’d intended, “your mother really does not want to hear this story.” 

She laughs a little, looking between them – politely distant from their teasing. She extends her hand to him. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Aramis. I’ve heard wonderful things from Porthos.”

Aramis swallows and he takes her hand, shaking it – and then dips it up so he can kiss the back of it. And then immediately wants to kick himself because that’s probably a little _too_ forward. Porthos looks torn between laughing in his face and being faintly annoyed, but Marie seems just amused. 

“Come in, the both of you,” she says.

 

-

 

Dinner, for the most part, is a quiet affair. Marie’s food is humble but delicious, and her company even better – she laughs easily, freely, loud and booming for her small frame and not unlike her son’s. Porthos is all smiles, lighting up from the inside, his eyes shining whenever he glances between her and Aramis. Seeing him so happy, knowing that he is a source of that happiness – that does better for him than anything else.

He’s known Porthos for years. He would do anything – everything and anything – to make sure he’s as happy forever as he is tonight. The thought warms him, makes him laugh a little heartier alongside mother and son. He feels as if he might someday belong to this. He feels as if someday he might be worthy of this. 

Once dinner and dessert are finished, Porthos offers to do the dishes – casting a quick glance at Aramis to indicate he’s not to jump in. Aramis’ stomach drops out of him because he knows what Porthos is doing, knows that he wants them to talk. He has no idea what he can speak of, other than to ramble forever about how perfect Porthos is.

But then, that might be what Porthos’ mother wishes to hear – for him to espouse all of Porthos’ virtues, to breathe out every single compliment he’s ever uttered and ever dreamed of, to highlight just how perfect Porthos is and how unworthy Aramis always feels standing beside him. 

He realizes they’re sitting in a lengthy silence and Aramis looks up guiltily towards her – unsure if she’s spoken and he’s failed to hear. 

But she smiles at him when he meets her gaze and says, “Porthos is so much happier now than he was as a boy.” 

“I – yes,” Aramis manages out. He never knew Porthos young, before he lost his mother for all those years. He met Porthos when he was angry and sullen, had to coax him into smiling after many months of trying. Now he smiles so easily it’s almost painful to look directly at him. 

“He tells me it’s your influence,” she says, light, but he feel as if he is being dissected. As if he is being examined and coming up short. 

“I’m sure it’s all his own doing,” Aramis says, quiet. “He’s amazing like that.” 

Her lips quirk up into a pleased smile. Aramis fists his hands at his sides and tries so desperately to get himself to relax. He uncurls his hands, fiddles with his napkin. 

“And you’re happy with him?” she asks. 

He feels too exposed under her gaze, too uncertain as to what to say. 

“I,” he begins. 

Then he swallows and the words come to him—

“I love him,” Aramis blurts out – and it’s strange to say because he hasn’t told anyone that yet, not even himself, not even _Porthos_ and yet here he is telling Porthos’ mother while they sit at the table and Porthos is humming away in the kitchen as he fills up the sink and scrubs the pots and pans. He blinks once, mouth falling open and a flush of warmth flooding through him. “… I love him.” 

Saying it now – it feels so simple. It’s been lodged there for so long, so unknown. He feels a little lighter for having said it. 

And Marie is beaming at him. 

“That – that is…” Aramis begins, and then stops mid-sentence. He shakes his head, says firmly, “I love him. With all my heart.” 

He has to tell Porthos. He can’t sit still. He’s squirming in his seat, looks as if he’ll stand up and just waiting for her to do so first. And she must notice, because she’s giving him a long, calculating look while Aramis sits in utter agony. 

He launches into a long spiel, says every little thing about Porthos he adores – his ears, his nose, his smile, his laugh, his intelligence, his gentle hands, his concentrated way of working on taxes and cooking and anything he’s a little vexed by, the way his tongue sticks out at the corner of his mouth when he’s concentrating on trying to mend a shirt because he doesn’t want to bother Aramis with it. How strong he is, how kind he is, how he’s faced down so many things and still manages to be as happy and as wonderful as he is. Everything. He loves everything about him. 

“Well,” she says once Aramis pauses for breath, not unlike the way Porthos speaks when he’s about to tease and then thinks better of it. “I think I need to go get something from downstairs. Just one moment.” 

She stands and collects the last of the plates and carries them to the kitchen and then leaves through the same doorway and walks towards the stairs with a small smile towards Aramis. 

Aramis isn’t sure if that’s approval or not. He’s shaking apart from happiness, he realizes. He stands up, follows after her – bursts into the kitchen and grabs at Porthos with little preamble. 

“Porthos!” he gasps out – doesn’t even let Porthos get a word in before he flies towards him. “I _love_ you.” 

Porthos, holding a plate in his sudful, soapy hands, blinks at him first in surprise and then drops the sponge he’s holding. 

And then his face splits into a ridiculous smile – boyish and open and unrestrained. “What?” 

“I love you!” Aramis shouts out, shoves him up against the kitchen counter, and starts kissing him right there. There’s a bit of soap stuck to the dip below his lip and he licks at it and immediately regrets it because it’s soapy – but he remedies it by just kissing Porthos deeper. 

Porthos is far from complaining, instead wrapping his arms around him and tugging him in close. 

“I love you,” he whispers between kisses, again and again. “I love you, I love you.” 

“Alright, alright, I know. I knew,” Porthos gasps out between kisses, laughing – and pushing him back. “God, okay, I get it. Stop.” He’s grinning though, bright eyed. He cups Aramis’ face – and it’s soapy and cold to the touch and Aramis can’t even care, his cheeks are too warm and he’s grinning too wide. Porthos is laughing. “At least let me say it back before you carry on.” 

“Go on,” Aramis whispers, eyes bright.

Porthos leans in and kisses him – gently this time, no desperation. He whispers, “I love you, too.” 

Aramis kisses him a few more times, delirious in his happiness, and then draws back to give him a very delayed, “What do you mean you knew?” 

“You,” Porthos says with a grin, “are not subtle.” 

Aramis pouts for the rest of the evening, even once Porthos’ mother returns from the back room carrying a few more plates and smiling politely at the two of them. That smile betrays the fact that she knows what they’ve been up to but Aramis can’t even be embarrassed about it – too busy grinning the whole evening and holding Porthos’ hand.

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/), as always.


End file.
